The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) by Jon Messenger

odd pairing, to be sure, but they seem to complement each other nicely.”
    Veronica smiled coyly. “An odd pairing? As odd as an Inquisitor courting a burlesque dancer?”
    Simon glanced at his love and smiled mischievously, a look that clearly confused Veronica. “They are indeed far more odd a pairing than you could ever imagine. In due time, I look forward to explaining all their respective nuances.”
    In time, they arrived before Veronica’s apartment. She paused at the door, even as the doorman held it open for her.
    “Will you stay tonight?” she asked. “Just for this once?”
    Simon smiled and brushed a strand of hair from out of her face.
    “We’ll see,” he replied, a polite response, the answer to which Veronica already sadly knew.

 

    Breaking what had evolved into a morning ritual, Simon took his breakfast alone the next morning, choosing not to bother Luthor and Mattie. His dry toast and mediocre tea was hardly a good substitute for Luthor’s more substantive morning meals, but the Inquisitor didn’t feel prone to intrude. Instead, he glanced once more to the latest letter that had been delivered at an obscene hour. The Grand Inquisitor’s seal was still evident, despite the severe crack that ran through its center from where Simon broke the wax globule.
    He unfolded the letter, which very concisely demanded Simon’s attendance at the Grand Hall that morning. Pulling his watch from his pocket, Simon glanced at the time. If he didn’t hurry, he knew he would be late for his appointment, but he wasn’t eager to repeat his previous day’s reprimand. The retribution for not attending, however, would be far worse. With a sigh, he dropped his toast onto his plate and folded the napkin from his lap as he stood.
    The sun was shining brilliantly as he emerged from his townhouse. A few automobiles rumbled along the road before him, infecting the air with their clouds of noxious fumes. His gaze shifted up the street and he frowned, noting the taxi parked on the curb. The taxi driver leaned patiently against the automobile’s passenger door, glancing occasionally toward the watch in his hand.
    Simon had no doubt the taxi had been sent to retrieve him. The leash he was normally allowed upon his return to Callifax was growing ever smaller, tightening like an invisible noose. The Grand Inquisitor clearly wanted to keep Simon close at hand until his misadventures in Haversham could be resolved.
    The taxi driver looked toward the Inquisitor as Simon rounded the gate at the end of his sidewalk. Smiling, the taxi driver motioned toward his automobile. Simon didn’t hurry toward the vehicle, though the chauffer held the rear door open for his easy entry.
    “Good morning, sir,” the taxi driver said, tipping his hat as Simon approached.
    “It’s not feeling like much of a good morning,” Simon replied sourly as he climbed inside the shaded interior.
    Without a reply, the taxi driver closed the door behind him before climbing into the driver’s seat. The taxi started with a lurch and cough of the backfiring engine. With a rattle, the vehicle pulled away from the curb and merged into the sparse traffic.
    The trip to the Grand Hall was blissfully short and devoid of any unwanted conversation. As they pulled to the curb before the pillared building, Simon didn’t wait for the taxi driver to politely open his door. The Inquisitor stepped onto the sidewalk and hurried toward the entryway, leaving the confounded chauffer in his wake.
    Guards opened the double doors and Simon hurried inside, the Grand Inquisitor’s letter still clutched in his hand. The foyer was surprisingly empty, though he heard voices wafting from the sitting room.
    “May I take your coat and hat, sir?” a servant asked as he emerged from a coatroom.
    Simon removed his top hat and handed it to the man. The servant walked behind him and grasped the shoulders of Simon’s coat as the Inquisitor slipped his arms free of the dense